see how deep the bullet lies
by paper streets
Summary: There's just something so satisfying about watching himself bleed. / post-movie. dark. trigger warnings for self harm.
1. it doesn't hurt me

So I have been in love with Daybreakers ever since I watched it for the first time not-too-long ago, and started writing this about an hour after. My minds a little messed up, you guys.

The title is from _Running Up That Hill _by Placebo.

I don't own Daybreakers.

* * *

><p>Failing at humanity must run in the family, thinks Edward Dalton, watching as his own blood drips into the sink. The glistening pearls slide lazily down the sides of the faux porcelain bowl.<p>

Ed's eyes move up to the glass above the sink because he can't look at the blood anymore. The mirror is dirty. Streaked with old makeup and dust and god-knows what else, making his bedraggled reflection look worse than it already does.

A reflection is one of those things he's still getting used to. He's not exactly sure he likes what he sees, but he tries not to look too intently.

He's disgusted. With himself and the quality of the bathroom (_which he should be accustomed to by now considering they've been here for a little less than a month). _

Needless to say, he's always careful to clean up. Rinsing the crimson tears out of the sink and off of the counter so Audrey or Elvis won't notice anything as out of the ordinary as bloodstains.

He soaks a strip of toilet paper in cold water. Always paper, never washcloths, because blood stains fabric and then the evidence of what he's been doing will just be out in the open for the world to see and he wouldn't be able to stand that. Therefore, paper is easier. It won't betray him.

Face first. Wrist second. That's how the he always does it. The cold of the water against the recently developed warmth of his skin is always unexpected. The once-white strip of paper is a pinkish hue now. His lips are pale again, teeth are white. Neither is smeared with evidence any longer.

He looks at his wrist. It's the left one today. It was the right yesterday. Ed is repulsed by it. By the white skin stretched over his bones, striped with those greenblue veins that taunt as they transport oxygen throughout his newly functioning body. But his left wrist isn't pale at the moment. Those greenblue veins aren't helping anything. His left wrist is open and squeezing out that ghastly red substance that he's all too familiar with.

Fighting back the ever-present nausea, he turns the faucet as scalding hot as possible in such a shit-hole of a hotel, and thrusts his wrist under the stream of water. The water burns against his open veins while they continue to bleed out that goddamned color and stain the porcelain as it disappears down the drain.

Ed hisses through clenched teeth. He wants to scream in a mixture of physical pain and anguish, but he won't. He can't let anyone hear because for all Elvis and Audrey know, he was just taking a shower.

So he silently holds his wrist under the burning water as long as he can. Until he feels that twisted sense of completion.

_(Which will only last until tomorrow night when he'll be running back to the bathroom and locking the door.)._

Ed splashes a bit of the burning water on his face, ignoring the sting, and runs his damp fingers through his hair.

Blinking droplets of water out of his eyes, he looks back up at his god-awful reflection.

His eyes are darker, outlined in deep-set bruise-like shadows. His skin is somehow paler now than it was when he was still a walking corpse. Not to mention he's much too thin, and no the good, fit thin that people strive to be, but he count-every-rib kind of thin that's usually associated with eating disorders and concentration camps. He still hasn't managed to strike up an agreement with food. Tends to happen when you live off of nothing but blood for ten years.

Tearing his eyes away from the mirror, he looks down at his still-throbbing left wrist. It's still red and open and angry looking, but no longer bleeding. So that's good. Makes it easier to hide. He can wear long sleeves. All the time, everyday. Which he does.

Ed steps away from the mirror and does a final check of the bathroom. No blood in the sink or on the dingy once-white tiled floor.

He already cleaned off the blade he uses to break his own skin and send all those beautiful ruby drops skittering across the counter.

Ed rubs his forehead. He hates this. This routine, this unholy ritual.

_(And to think, he was the one who wanted to be human in the first place)._

He sighs and unlocks the door.

He puts on his _everything's fine_ act and gathers up the pieces of his sanity. As he turns the knob and pushes the door open, he smiles to himself bitterly.

This is his addiction and he can't stop it.

He steps over the threshold.

His companions are spread out across the room (_or rather, as far as they can spread in such a cramped room_).

There arte two small beds. Despite her protests, Audrey was given a permanent spot on one of them. Elvis and Ed have alternating shifts in the other, both of them being too manly and dignified to sleep in the same bed at the same time. It's Elvis's night in the bed, which means that Ed will spend his night curled up in a chair, then wake up unable to turn his head.

It's a bad way to sleep, but he really ahs no other option. He'd rather not imagine what kind of horrors the worn blue carpet has seen, and sleeping with Audrey is out of the question. Elvis loves her like daughter and probably wouldn't hesitate to eviscerate the other once-vampire should the situation ever arise. So for now, he has the old armchair in the corner.

Ed nearly jumps when Audrey breaks the silence.

"Have a nice shower?" she asks absently. She's sitting on her bed, watching Elvis flip channels on the miniscule TV screen.

Before Ed has a chance to respond, Elvis answers for him.

"Damn right, he had an ice shower. Been in there for over an hour—I wouldn't be surprised if the whole hotel's out of hot water."

"Uh…yeah," stutters Ed dumbly. "It was…warm…"

Audrey looks over at him. He can't tell if she's just looking at him like a normal person looks at another normal person, or if she's appraising him carefully, burning through his soul.

"What's on your shirt?" she asks, pulling herself off the bed to get a closer look. "Is that blood?"

Shit.

.

Surely enough there's one small tell-all stain of blood on the collar of his white t-shirt.

Oh god, he should've noticed that and why the hell was he wearing white anyway?

Audrey's looking at him in confusion, waiting for some kind of explanation.

"It's nothing," says Ed, trying to sound as casual as possible under the circumstances while praying she doesn't see the panic in his eyes. "I must have cut myself shaving." The layer of dark stubble across his jaw says otherwise, but Audrey seems to accept his answer because she shrugs and resumes her position on the bed.

Ed lets out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Having averted disaster, the ex-vampire moves across the room and drops down on the old armchair.

He feels horrible. About everything.

Everything hurts and still, all he wants to do is lock himself in the bathroom and start on his barely healed right wrist again.

Pushing these thoughts out of his far-from-sane mind, he looks over at the small digital clock next to Audrey's bed. It's past eleven, which means he can sleep without any suspicion from the others. He leans back and throws an arm over his face. The left one. So he can torture himself with the coppery scent of blood all night.

He drifts into a slumber that's far from pleasant.

* * *

><p>Audrey worries more than she should. It's bordering on unhealthily obsessive. But how can she not? Through all the <em>everything's fine<em> bullshit he's been trying to pull off lately, she's still certain that there's something definitely wrong with Edward Dalton.

She's not sure how she knows. She just does. Audrey's always liked to think that she's good at reading people.

_(It comes from all the years she's spent helping hide other humans)._

Then there's Ed…he's a mystery to her now. She can't tell what he's thinking anymore. No one can.

But still, Audrey notices things. Relatively small things that may or may not be completely mundane.

Like how Ed almost never eats. Sure, he's still adjusting to being human again. And food is pretty scarce fro them, still being an endangered species and all, but even when they get it, he eats next to nothing. This is obviously the cause behind his rapid weight loss. She can practically see every bone through his clothes for fuck's sake. Or how he can disappear in the bathroom for hours on end under the guise of showering, then come out looking more drawn and pale than before.

Of course, she doesn't bring much of this to Elvis's attention. Not because she thinks he won't care, but because she already worries enough for the both of them.

Audrey sighs and blows a stray lock of brown hair out of her face. She looks over at the man in the chair, the constant source of her anxiety.

He looks cold, she notes to herself. He probably is. Heating is never a strong element in backwater motels run by humans who don't have much more than they do. She pulls herself out of the warmth of her bed slowly, trying to be as quiet as possible, careful to not wake either of her companions. She gathers up the top blanket on her bed, the thickest one, and practically tiptoes over to Ed's chair in the corner.

She drapes the blanket over Ed's thinning body, which is contorted into an inhuman looking position. She brushes her fingertips across a patch of milk white forehead that isn't covered by his arm. His skin is colder than it should be. Somehow that doesn't surprise her.

Running a hand through her hair, Audrey pads back to bed.

"Audrey?" mumbles Ed, his voice hoarse.

She looks over her shoulder. Even in the dark, she can tell he's looking right at her, which unnerves her for a moment because Ed hardly ever makes eye contact with anyone lately.

"Thanks," he says simply.

All Audrey can manage is a lamely muttered "You're welcome".

Neither of them says anything more.

Audrey shivers lightly as she slides back into bed. But she can ignore the cold. She's always been known to care more about others than herself.

Curled up in a ball with the sheets up to her chin, Audrey's gaze lands back on Ed once again.

_(It seems to have become a second nature for her. Watching Ed at all hours of the day). _

His skin looks almost yellow. She can't tell whether or not it's because of the darkness.

She hates this. This routine of just observing and worrying in silence. She doesn't actually know what's wrong with Ed, but she'll find a way to help him. A way to save him. She has to.

Ed's spiraling down fast, and eventually there'll be no way to pull him back.

Audrey closes her eyes.

* * *

><p>Edward wakes up with a killer cramp in his neck. Perfect. But on the bright side, he didn't accidentally reopen his barely-healed wrist again. He'd done it once before, and it'd been a nightmare. A second time would've been hell.<p>

Ed's eyes do a quick sweep over the room. Both Audrey and Elvis are no where to be seen. Knowing them, they'd been up since the sun peaked over the horizon. Audrey had most likely convinced Elvis to just leave him be. Good. Now he won't have to deal with anyone for the time being.

Not that Ed has anything against the two of them. On the contrary, he likes them. Had they never met, he'd still be a manic-depressive vampire (_because being a manic-depressive human is so much better)._ But he has to act like nothing's wrong and everything's just fan-_fucking_-tastic whenever he's around them. Therefore, being alone is much easier.

Ed wishes he was better at being human. For Elvis, because he's been through the same thing but still manages to be _normal_. For Audrey. Simply because she's _Audrey_.

He's not sure why she's so caring all the time, especially towards him. He's really not worth it. She brought him a blanket last night. That was nice.

Every join cracks as Ed unwinds his body and stands up. He rubs tentatively at the knot in his neck. It doesn't help much

Giving up on regaining the ability to move his head, Ed's focus turns to his left forearm. He gingerly pushes back the sleeve of his shirt to examine the less-than-half-healed gash. It's still red and inflamed, but now there's a thin scab connecting the skin around it and it's definitely _not bleeding_. He traces it from point A to point B wit his fingers and winces at the slight jolt of pain.

_(Good. He deserves the pain for doing this to himself in first place)._

Ed carefully pulls his shirt off, stretching his cramped limbs as he does so. He crosses over to the small coat closet where the trio keeps all of their sparse belongings, the majority of which being crossbows. Pushing aside a box of said crossbows, Ed locates his designated pile of shit. _(Organization isn't on the forefront of anyone's mind when they're on the run). _He rifles through it until he finds a decent shirt, black and long-sleeved.

He pulls it on and looks back at the clock. It's far past the time he should've left the room to find Audrey and Elvis, which is only a problem because then they might start wondering why he's taking so long to join them, which will lead to more inevitable questions that Ed won't be able to answer without earning a one-way ticket to the nearest asylum. (_Or possibly an arrow through the heart, depending on Elvis's mood._)

Ed opens the large plywood door and walks—no, _meanders_ down the hallway. Walking would suggest a sense of purpose.

He has a decent idea of where his companions are. There're only so many places one can go in a place like this.

But still, it takes him twice the time of an average person to walk down one hallway, turn right, ride the elevator down one floor, and walk down yet another hallway.

He's halfway down the last hallway when the dismal silence of the hotel changes to the nearing sounds of hushed conversations and dishes clanking together. For a split second, Ed actually wants to stroll into he small dining room, get a plate of shitty-but-palatable hotel food, and just _eat _like everyone else. After all, real food had been one of the things he'd missed most during his time as a vampire. But within several seconds, his stomach clenches painfully and the prospect of eating is gone.

Ed looks around the corner, into the dining room before going in completely. He spots Elvis and Audrey sitting across from each other at a table in the corner. Audrey's leaning forward on her elbows, seemingly in an urgent discussion with the older man. They've already eaten judging by the stack of plates pushed to the side of the table.

As Ed rounds the corner and walks toward their table, Audrey stops talking instantly and leans back. Her eyes are locked on his, and even Elvis seems to sit a bit straighter and stare him down.

Ed clears his throat awkwardly. "Morning."

Elvis grunts in response before taking a long gulp from a coffee mug, his eyes never leaving the other former-vampire.

"Morning," says Audrey, also continuing the stare-down.

Determined not to falter under the two piercing gazes, Ed stares back, his icy blue eyes flickering back and forth rapidly. He's not sure how long this goes on, but it seems like far too long to go without blinking.

"Well don't just stand there," says Elvis, breaking the awkward silence. "Have a seat."

Ed looks at the two empty seats, weighing his options. Hesitantly, he sits in the chair beside Audrey because then it'll at least be harder for her to stare him down if he's next to her.

"So how'd you sleep?" asks Audrey, trying to make things seem less tense.

Horrible. "Fine."

"Were you planning on eating this morning?" She asks it in that way people do when they already know the answer, but still want to hear you say it, in hopes that you'll say something else.

Ed's stomach twists, reminding him that he won't be eating anytime soon. "No," he says a little too quickly. He tries to recover from any suspicion he may have stirred up by adding a hasty "I've never really been one for breakfast anyway."

Audrey's shoulders fall a bit. Unnoticeably really, but Ed still notices.

"We made you coffee," says Audrey casually while pushing a Styrofoam cup toward him. "Thought you might need it."

He looks at the cup for a moment. He's never been a fan of the caffeine-filled beverage, but he knows they're still watching, so he picks it up anyway with a muttered thanks.

He can feel Audrey's usually warm hazel eyes boring into him as he brings the cup to his lips. He can't help but be reminded of that night in the car that feels so long ago, when Audrey had poured some of her own blood into a paper cup for him and glowered at him until he drank it.

It's just coffee this time, he reminds himself repeatedly. He manages two long swallows before his throat closes and refuses to accept anything more.

Thankfully, that seems to be enough to satisfy Audrey for now, because her piercing gaze abates somewhat.

As Ed places the now half-empty cup on the table, Audrey's eyes turn back to Elvis.

She strikes up a conversation with them, and Ed tries to listen and follow along, he really does, but he can't seem to focus on things anymore. His mind wanders off while the rest of him begs to stay still.

Ed looks at the woman beside him. He's never really thought about how little he knows about her. Who was she before all this? He thinks that maybe one day—when this is all over and he's gotten all his issues straightened out—he should ask her. He should ask both of them because he knows almost nothing about Elvis either _(aside from the obvious ex-vampirism, of course)._

"Ed," says Audrey, snapping the man out of his reverie. "Are you listening?"

"Yeah. Yes, I was." He tries to make himself sound vaguely coherent, but it doesn't seem to work. "Yes." He gestures as if to say 'carry on'. In the background, Elvis rolls his eyes.

"So, as I was saying," continues Audrey, still watching Ed out of the corner of her eye. "A band of resistance from central Ohio are heading this way, so maybe we can…"

Ed sees that she's still talking, but he seems to have lost complete control over his body because his mind strays and ears tune out the voice he used to listen to so intently.

Seconds pass, feeling more like hours. Audrey stops talking, and Ed manages to nod like he'd been following the conversation all along before Elvis starts telling them about _someone_ from _somewhere _who did _something._

He catches the occasional phrase, but still not enough to actually contribute anything aside from empty nods.

Rubbing his temple, Ed leans back in his chair.

It's going to be a long day.

* * *

><p>The day goes by in that strange way when every minute seems to stretch on for hours, but then at the end it feels as though the day was just beginning. Predictable. Uneventful. Just like every other day of the past few weeks.<p>

Ed drums his fingers on his knees. Bored. He's not really sure what time it is, but judging by the lack of sunlight, it could be anytime from 6:00 to midnight.

They're all in the room, sprawled lazily on the furniture while some reality show flickers on the ancient TV. It's just white noise. No one actually pays attention, partially because the picture is so grainy that it's hard to make out what's going on, but mostly because no one actually cares.

Ed's stomach twists as his eyes dart down to his fabric-covered wrists. He knows it's almost time for him to scurry off to the bathroom, lock the door, and pull out that diminutive knife from its hiding place, but he always tries to convince himself that he won't do it this time. That he doesn't _need_ to do it this time.

He looks at Audrey. Sweet, beautiful Audrey, sitting on the adjacent bed reading some tattered book that he's fairly certain she's read a million times by now.

_Think of her. Think of what it would do to her if she knew what you were doing._

Ed clenches his jaw, trying desperately to ignore the fact that his heart is pounding and he's shaking with some sort o sick anticipation.

_Fuck. _

He snaps and he hates himself that much more for it. He can't tell himself that he doesn't want this—no, that he doesn't _need _this like he _needs_ oxygen. No matter how hard he tires to be human, there'll always be this animalistic demon inside him. This…

_Vampire. _

That's it. He practically leaps off the bed and darts several paces into the bathroom. His clumsy trembling fingers slip on the cool metal of the door knob several times before he manages to actually lock the door.

Ed turns away from the door, struggling to keep breathing regularly. His ribs are beginning to hurt from his heart hammering against them. He crosses to the small, repulsive looking bathtub and turns on the shower. _(If he's going to keep using that cover story, he has to make it somewhat believable). _

He quickly peels off his shirt and drops it on the floor. He's always careful to not make the same mistake twice; therefore he has to be sure to not leave any evidence at all. (_Unlike last _time_, when one tell-tale spot of blood almost ruined everything)._

Ed crouches down to the point that his forehead is level with the counter. He reaches out a hand under the sink, groping blindly across the filthy tiles until his fingers curl around an all-too familiar object.

Switchblade. About five inches long, the blade itself no longer than two and a half. The silver glints under the sickly fluorescent lights.

Ed rises slowly, placing his hands on either side of the sink. He leans into the counter and stares into the mirror.

There's still time, he reminds himself constantly. He doesn't have to do this again.

_(He hates lying to himself. It doesn't ever change a fucking thing.)_

He knows exactly how this all started, too. It'd been only a few weeks since his transformation from vampire to human. Re-rebirthing. (_Third time's the charm). _

He'd actually been _living _in every meaning of the word, for the first time in almost ten years. Even if _living _just meant feeling his heartbeat quicken or the sun on his pale skin, it was still living. Then, the simplest thing brought all of it crashing down around him. _He bit his fucking tongue. _

It was the blood. The taste of salt and copper and iron burning across his newly-human taste buds. _His own blood_.

It brought out a craving he didn't know was possible. After all, old habits die hard and addictions are a bitch to kick.

And so now he's stuck with this ritual, this secret, this demon, and these _fucking scars_.

Ed swallows hard. He can't prolong this much longer. His breaths are shallow. Shuddering and quick. His entire body is rigid with some twisted form of excitement as he raises his right arm, holding it out in front of him with the elbow bent at a ninety degree angle. Six horizontal slash marks run parallel across the skin, in order of oldest to most recent. Those perfect parallel lines disgust him, but still he feels this agonizingly horrid sense of pride in them.

The knife is shaking in his left hand as he brings it over his wrist, ready to add another scar to his collection.

Ed sucks in a deep, quivering breath and lets it out in a kind of whimpering sigh as the edge of the blade makes contact.

It's always easier after that first pinprick of blood wells up under the feather-light tip of the knife. He presses the entire length of the blade against his skin and slides it across slowly, pushing it _just a little _deeper into his veins.

This is the climax of it all, when the blade is there and the thick redness is starting to drip down his forearm. It fucking hurts, but that's the pleasure in it all and it's all he can do to suppress a moan.

_(Pleasure can't exist without pain). _

Ed feels himself beginning to slip away from the temporary high as he lays the stained knife on the counter. The nauseating revulsion is already setting in, but he can't stop now. He knows he'll feel a hundred times worse afterwards, but he's a slave to the insatiable remnant of a vampire still pulsing away somewhere behind his beating heart, eating away at his humanity until eventually there'll be none left.

Ed looks at the bleeding incision with something between guilt and satisfaction.

_Oh god._

_God no_.

_Please_.

_Don't._

The human stomach can handle one pint of blood before caving and sending all its contents spilling out.

_I can't._

_I won't. _

_I have to. _

**I have to**_._

Ed brings his wrist to his lips.

* * *

><p>Reviews are love.<p> 


	2. let's exchange the experience

Its six thirty in the morning, and even the sunrise seems dull.

Ed's standing right outside the hotel, basking in the quasi-dark glow of dawn. An unlit cigarette hangs loosely from his lips.

He leans against the cold concrete wall of the hotel as he pulls a lighter out of his pocket. Flicking it open, he holds the blue-rimmed orange flame to the tip of the cigarette and breathes in. The smoke scorches his throat on its way down to his lungs.

Ed lets his eyes slide closed for just several seconds in exhaustion. He's not surprised—it's been one of those unwillingly early mornings for him.

The previous night, after slinking out of the bathroom with his right wrist still burning like hell, he'd completely crashed in bed. Dead to the world, perfectly without thought for about four hours and thirty seven gloriously empty minutes. He awoke around 4:30 AM in that aggravating way when one's body is practically useless with fatigue, but the mind is alert and awake and reeling endlessly, making it impossible to get back to sleep. Having no interest in just lying there, Ed pulled himself out of bed, grabbed an old half-empty box of cigarettes, and snuck out of the room. He found himself _right outside_ the hotel, standing in almost the exact same position for nearly two hours now.

Ed opens his eyes slowly. It's kind of pointless to.

_(Not like the view of a parking lot in the middle of nowhere at 6 AM changes very often)._

He takes another drag of the cigarette and then exhales slowly, watching the combination of smoke and foggy carbon dioxide-turned-steam pour out.

It's on the border of being _just cold _and flat-out freezing. He's fairly certain it's near the beginning of winter, but it's been a while since anyone's paid attention to the date. Or maybe it's just always cold here in wherever the hell they are. He knows is some where north but not quite Canada.

_(Things as undefined as stateliness blur in all their minds, and Ed doesn't really give a fuck anyway, as long as there's some distance between them and so-called civilization)._

"Hey," says a voice behind him.

Ed jumps slightly at the break in silence, but recovers quickly and looks over his shoulder at the source of the disturbance. It's Audrey, eyes wide, waiting for a response. And because it's Audrey, he's automatically obligated to respond. A returned "Hey" is murmured hoarsely.

"Kind of early to be out here, don't you think?" she asks. There's a tone in her voice that suggests she's almost certain he won't answer.

Ed proves her half-right when he doesn't-quite-answer by responding with "You're out here."

"I woke up, you were gone," Audrey shrugs. Her eyes are underlined with light purple shadows. "I guess maybe I came looking for you."

"Couldn't sleep," says Ed, taking in another lungful of smoke. They both get quiet. Audrey rubs her arms before crossing them tightly over her chest. She's obviously cold because that sweater she's wearing was designed for mild central Californian winters, not northern-not-quite-Canadian winters. Ed has to fight the sudden urge to put an arm around her.

"You know," begins Audrey, watching as Ed pulls the cigarette away from his lips. "Smoking probably isn't the best past time now that you're human again."

Ed lets out a quiet laugh and blows a billowy cloud of smoke into the air. Audrey gives him a light, barely there smile in return. Her cheeks are whipped rosy pink from the wind. He can't help but notice it.

Ed holds out the small, nearly gone red and white box. "Do you want one?"

` Audrey looks at it warily for a second. "What the hell." She reaches forward and takes one from the box.

Ed procures the lighter once more and Audrey leans forward and breathes in the flame through the smoldering tip of the cigarette.

She settles back against the bricks, matching Ed's statue-esque stance. Gazing up that the almost fully-risen sun and blowing smoke into the not-quite-Canadian air.

Ed lets his eyes drift to Audrey for a split second, before forcing them back on the horizon.

The sunrise seems a little less dull.

* * *

><p>Ed's always kind of hated mirrors. He's never known why. There was no jarring childhood incident involving the shiny silver glass that left him scarred for life. He just doesn't like mirrors. Something about them puts him on edge, makes his skin crawl. Which is probably why the whole vampires-lack-reflections thing never bothered him all that much. And now, his abhorrence for mirrors is even stronger.<p>

_(No one wants to see their reflection when the thing they loathe the most is their self). _

But Ed must be a reluctant glutton for torture, because he constantly forces himself to stare into the dull, dust-smeared surface of the mirror. Always revolted with the hollowed shell of a man that stares back.

"You're disgusting," he hisses at the glass. He ignores the fact that it's a fucking _mirror_ he's talking to.

The reflection narrows its dull eyes. _"Oh Edward," _it trills in a voice silkier than his own. _"You don't mean that." _

Ed grinds his teeth. "I do," he murmurs through his locked jaw.

_"You need me, Edward."_

"No," snaps Ed. "I don't _fucking _need you."

The reflection has the nerve to look shocked. _"You _don't_ mean that,"_ it repeats. _"We're one in the same, Edward."_

"No we're fucking not," says Ed, fingers knotting in his hair. "I'm not a—,"

_"Vampire?" _The reflection's mouth curls into something akin to a smile.

"A monster," spits Ed. "Not anymore."

The reflection's lips pull back over it's teeth. The elongated incisors poke pinprick holes in it's lower lip as it lets out a chilling laugh. _"Oh, Edward, Edward, Edward. When will you realize?" _The reflection's smile vanishes. _"You'll always be a monster. Reflections never lie."_

Ed lunges at the mirror, clawing desperately at as much of the reflection as he can reach. The glass shatters and his fingers bleed. His hands hurt like hell, but he pounds at the shards of glass that now cover the counter until the reflection is reduced to nothing more than bloodied, jagged bits of broken glass.

But there's still one piece that's bigger than the rest. One glinting, golden eye shines in it.

_"Reflections never lie…" _

Ed's eyes fly open, one hand scrambling to his chest in a blind panic. His heart is pounding. He looks down at his other hand. No blood, no cuts, no leftover shards of glass. He flexes his fingers idly.

"He lives," says a joking voice from across the room.

Ed looks up to see Audrey sitting cross-legged on her bed, pouring over the stack of papers spread across the shabby bedspread.

He must look rattled, because Audrey's eyebrows knit together in concern. "Are you okay?"

"Bad dreams," he responds, pushing himself further up in his chair. He was about three inches away from falling out of the old thing. "No big deal."

Audrey nods in understanding and turns over a sheet of paper. Ed rubs his eyes and looks at the clock. It's a little before seven PM, which explains why the sunlight coming through the window is diminishing. "How long have I been out?  
>Audrey's eyes dart to the clock and back. "Hour, hour and a half maybe. I thought about waking you up, but I know you didn't sleep well last night, so…" She gives a small smile.<p>

"Thanks," mutters Ed, looking around the room uneasily. He's still shaking lightly from his dream. "Where's Elvis?"

"He's out," she replies. "You remember that resistance group I told you about yesterday?"

Vaguely. "Yeah."

"Well, they're at some farm about ten miles over. Elvis went to meet with them—you know, tell 'em we're here, see if they need any help with anything, get enough information to add them to our files." She pats one of the papers in front of her. "The usual."

Ed nods slowly, looking at the spread of paperwork on Audrey's bed. The file is something he knows Audrey's been compiling since before he ever crashed into her. It's a collection of papers, each one detailing members of every human resistance band across the country. They have to be updated often, of course, with the human race still being a precious commodity of the major population.

Audrey's mouth turns downwards slightly as she picks up a black pen and makes a large X across one page. "He was only eleven," she murmurs, placing the sheet on one of the two stacks of papers toward the foot of the bed. The stack she lays it on is considerably larger than the other.

Ed feels a familiar pang of sadness in his chest. The updates almost always have to do with death.

_(Just a cruel reminder of what they're fighting for). _

Audrey crosses another name off the dwindling list on her lap. Her eyes skim over the list one more time. She exhales slowly, reaching forward for the two leaning stacks of paper. She wraps an over-stretched elastic band around each stack before stuffing them both back inside a tattered pocket folder. The papers barely fit inside of it, and Ed's not exactly sure if that's a good thing or not.

Audrey leans to the side and places the overflowing folder in the nightstand drawer, right on top of an abused phone book from the late seventies.

"Why didn't you go?" asks Ed quietly.

"Hm?"

"You usually do the first face-to-face meetings with resistance yourself," He explains. "So why didn't you go with Elvis?"

Audrey shrugs thoughtfully. "I guess I just felt like being here."

The corners of Ed's mouth twitch, the faintest hint of a smile breaking free.

"Well," begins Audrey, rising off of the bed. "I'll be in the shower." With that, she steps across the room and disappears behind the bathroom door.

Once she's out of sight, Ed's eyes fall to his wrists and he feels that ever-so-familiar lurching twist in his empty stomach. It's almost time, he reminds the monster inside himself. As soon as Audrey comes out of the bathroom, he'll be running in, all too eager to bleed.

His hands twist absently in his lap, thumbs grazing over the half-formed scars on both wrists.

Minutes pass agonizingly slow for almost an hour until Ed hears the hairdryer's breathy scream go silent. His pulse seems as if it sped up and stopped at the same time.

Something clatters to the tiled floor of the bathroom and the entire room is so silent that the sound is loud enough to make him jump.

The doorknob twists slowly, and the door opens up all way. Audrey stands in the doorway, holding a switchblade unsurely in her hand.

Ed's out of his chair and halfway across the room before he realizes what he's seeing. His mouth goes dry as he freezes in his hasty steps.

"I found it under the counter," she says. She sounds as though she's not quite sure if she should be concerned or not. "Do you recognize it?"

His eyes are fixed on the shining metal in Audrey's palm. Because, yes, he fucking recognizes it.

Switchblade. About 5 inches long, the blade no bigger than two and a half.

He tries not to stare at it, tries not to make it so painfully obvious that he definitely recognizes the knife that he's gotten so familiar with over the past few weeks.

He has to find a distraction. Anything to keep Audrey from learning about his sick addiction.

So Ed steps closer and does the only thing he can think of.

He kisses her.

It's not exactly the best kiss he's ever given, and Audrey stiffens in surprise when it happens. But he's relentless, moving his lips desperately against hers until the knife slides from her hand as she softens and begins to respond.

Its not until this moment that he realizes just how much he wants this. (_Even if its only a cover-up to hide his unholy ritual). _Still, some part of him has wanted this for a while. He's wanted to know what it would feel like to be this close to her, to feel the warmth of her lips on his.

He wants to feel her pulse.

Their hasty kiss escalates in fervor, and Ed's head is spinning and he's not sure if he's doing this because he needs to or because he _wants _to. For a second, he allows himself to think that maybe Audrey feels something more for him and sees past the monster he still is at heart. Then the next thing he knows, his lips are traveling down, across her jaw and lower. He wants to feel her pulse on his lips.

Ed stops against her jugular, warm and soft and he's not sure if he's imagining it or not, but he swears he can smell the blood pumping by. He scrapes his teeth against her skin experimentally and feels that same rush of adrenaline that he can only achieve with a knife pressed to his wrist. _Fuck._ He doesn't know what he's doing, so blind in the moment, and he forgets who is he is, forgets what he is.

Audrey's soft moan turns into a cry of surprise as the man's blunt human teeth clamp down harshly, mimicking the action she's seen performed by vampires far too many times. She shoves him away roughly, pressing a hand to her neck.

"What the fuck?" she demands in a deadly combination of ten percent anger and ninety percent raw, wide eyed open-mouthed shock.

Ed stands there, gaping back at her with his mind whirling because he doesn't know what he can possibly say because he doesn't fucking understand any of it. Panic rises in his chest. All he knows is that he needs to get to the bathroom; he needs to slit his wrist open and watch it bleed. It'll make everything better, make everything clear, if he can just get the knife and get past Audrey. He needs to fucking suffer, then he'll be able to think clearly again.

Practically hyperventilating already, Ed darts forward, over the threshold where the carpet meets the tile. He's so close, he can almost taste the blood and he fucking hates how relieved that makes him feel.

But before he can get all the way in the room, Audrey grabs his wrist in an attempt to stop him. Ed pulls forward, still caught in her grasp. He feels a tearing pain and then warmth spreading under Audrey's iron grip.

Fucking hell, why did she have to catch him by the wrist sporting his freshest scab?

Audrey must feel the warm wetness soaking through the fabric, judging by the look of pure confusion clouding her face. Her eyes go from his wrist to his eyes repeatedly, her fingers still encircled around his forearm.

Ed stares back at her, chest heaving and heart pounding. His eyes are huge, searching desperately for a logical explanation that can somehow salvage whatever dignity he has left.

(_It doesn't matter what he says because he can't lie away his bleeding wrist, and Audrey's not stupid, she's bound to put two and two together.)_

Audrey loosens her hold on him and Ed draws his arm back, pressing it into his side as if he can still hide it from her.

He can see all the questions forming on her lips silently, none of them seeming to be the right thing to say.

She drops her shoulders and settles on the single word that's been hovering on the forefront of her mind. "Why?"

Ed shakes his head frantically. There are far too many questions in that one word, too many explanations that he doesn't have, he doesn't know what he could possibly say to fix things.

"Why not?" He counters with, his voice on the brink of hysteria. "Why shouldn't I? Why shouldn't I have to suffer for everything? Tell me, Audrey, why?"

"But you don't have to suffer," she says bewilderedly, her voice rising to match his.

"Yes I do!" he insists. Why does she not seem to understand that he _needs_ to do this, that there's no other way to make up for what he did as a vampire? He has so much blood on his hands already; why not add some of his own to cancel it out?

"You don't have to suffer," Audrey repeats, quieter now. "You're human."

"Maybe I shouldn't be human," snaps Ed desperately. "Maybe I'm not. Not all the way. Something didn't work—something came out wrong. It wasn't supposed to be this way."

_(He knows he's a monster inside. Reflections never lie). _

Audrey shakes her head. "You're not a vampire anymore, Ed. You're not a monster."

Ed gives a frenzied, desperately humorless laugh, while ripping his sleeves back violently. His scars stand out brightly against his pallid skin, beaming in their morbid glory. "I am a monster, Audrey! Why can't you see it?"

Her eyes are fixed on his forearms, covered with the series of pink and red lines marring his flesh. She looks back at his panicked eyes. "All this time?" She manages to ask. "This is what you've been doing?"

Ed pushes his hair back roughly, scraping his nails across his scalp in the process. "It's what I have to do," he says, his voice cracking in a way that he hates.

"Why do you have to do it?" She demands, tears shining in the corners of her eyes.

Ed forces back the burning in his eyes, the precursor tell-tale of tears on their way. "Don't you see?" His voice strains with frustration. "I have to get rid of it because it's still there!"

Audrey throws her hands up exasperatedly. "What's still there? God damn it, Edward, why can't you just tell me?" She pleads.

"Why can't you just know?" He asks. He wraps his own fingers around the reopened gash, squeezing it harshly. His voice drops volume drastically. Resignedly, he asks again. "Why can't you just know?"

Audrey's mind whirls, thinking over every detail she can remember of the past few weeks. All the meals he didn't eat, all the nights she stayed up watching as he writhed with unknown terrors in his sleep, all the times he shut her out, all the times she knew something was wrong but didn't know what.

"The vampire," Audrey states warily. "You still feel it. Inside you." Something cold and heavy settles in the pit of her stomach. "That's what you're trying to get rid of. You think you can lose it this way."

Ed shakes his head, his desperate eyes boring into her. "I know I can."

He can bleed it out; spill enough of his own blood to repay that which he took. Purge. _Purify_. He can make himself human again.

Audrey bites her lip. "You _are not _a monster. You can stop this."

Ed feels his heart breaking. This is what he wanted—he wanted to stop with the bleeding and the secrets. But how can he do what he wants when it so contradicts what he needs to do?

He sinks down onto the closest bed, looking at his scars with revulsion.

"You can stop this," repeats Audrey, before squeezing his shoulder and disappearing into the bathroom again. She walks out a moment later with their often-needed yet often-forgotten first aid kit.

She kneels on the floor before him and pulls out a roll of gauze.

They sit in silence while she bandages the still inflamed and barely-bleeding cut. Once finished, she tentatively brushes her fingers over one of the other scars, and Ed winces involuntarily. She traces every scar lightly, sending chills up Ed's spine.

Ed tries to find something to say, but he can't seem to remember how to make his throat work. What could he say anyway? 'I'm sorry that you wasted so much energy on someone who fucked up as soon as they got what they wanted' seems like far too many words, but just 'I'm sorry' is much too little, too insubstantial.

"Are you mad?" he asks softly, his voice small and hesitant. He's kicking himself as soon as the words are out, because that's not what he wanted to say at all.

Audrey tries to smile. "No." A weak smile suffices for a full one. She tries to say more, but she just can't. She glances at his wrists and then back at his face. "No."

She puts her hands on his lap and pushes herself up so that she's standing over him.

Ed looks up at her with broken, bloodshot blue eyes. He hates this feeling, being so vulnerable and ashamed of everything.

They hold each other's gaze for what feels like forever, before Audrey lurches forward and throws her arms around his neck.

Ed buries his face in the crook of her neck, hiding in between the fabric of her sweater and her dark hair. He can feel the sharp spasms of her lungs and moisture on the side of his neck as she cries for him.

And like this, he can't force back his own tears anymore. He lets them spill from his eyes and onto Audrey's heather gray sweater, and it feels so much better than slitting his wrists ever did, as much as he hates to admit it.

Maybe he doesn't need to suffer anymore. Maybe he's letting go of it all.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm so sorry, Audrey."

She tightens her grip on him. "You're not a monster," she reiterates. "You're not a monster."

They stay that way for god-knows how long, Audrey stooped over awkwardly but not backing away for anything. They stay that way, crying unabashedly and holding each other as if they'll fall off the face of the earth if they let go.

Maybe this is the first step. Maybe the storm is passing and he'll finally be able to be human again.

"You're not a monster," Audrey whispers again.

And for the first time in so long, Ed feels the slightest bit more human.

He locks his arms tighter around Audrey's small frame, and they stay that way for God-knows how long.

"_You're not a monster._"

For the first time in so long, he believes her.

* * *

><p>And that is the end.<p>

I hope everyone enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Not that I want to sit here and thank everyone I've ever met, but I really do want to thank my friends for being willing to read the new snippets of this story every morning and for all their help, especially Annabeth, because I wrote the first thousand words sitting on her couch while she washed dishes. And also, Bakla, the first reviewer. I love you all.


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